What Then?

When every stone-strewn farm
has been corporatized
and robotic tractors grind
their way across the dying soil,
super-saturated with herbicides
and fungicides, chemically nourished
GM grains, what will become
of all these narrow cells?
Who then to mow this graveyard?
Who left to toll the bells?
Who but sharp-eyed Crow
to oversee the seasons?

When this sacred patch of land
is overgrown and no one
is left around to be buried,
will anyone be here to recall
the words of Sandburg:I am the grass. I cover all?